


Like Wood With a Gift For Burning

by gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fill, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor
Summary: Sulahnassan Lavellan and Blackwall have a chat the night before they leave for the Storm Coast to retrieve his lost memento.





	Like Wood With a Gift For Burning

They are leaving tomorrow, as early as they can, on a journey that he had requested, and yet he is still awake, golden light spilling out of the barn onto the grass. The soft tapping of woodwork grows in volume as she crosses the yard, careful to stay out of his line of sight. She doesn’t want to sneak up on him, but since their conversation on the ramparts, Blackwall has been distant. His behavior leaves her no less drawn to him, however. Even if they will be venturing out together tomorrow, she still wants to see him tonight, if only to spend some time with him while he works.

Sulahnassan stops in the doorway, settling against the frame, arms folded over her chest. For a while, she just watches him, the methodical way he chips at the wood, running his hand over the spot where he’s working, checking for imperfections. He is diligent, but everything he does is also done with care, and she can not help but find that extraordinary in someone who carries the weight that he does. The Grey Wardens are entrusted with saving the world when the Blights come, only to be all but abandoned in the times in between. He had saved her life before he even knew who she was, and that fundamental goodness shows in everything he does, even in this. She had thought to talk with him, but maybe this is enough, to be near him. There will be time for talking, all the way to the Storm Coast and back.

One of the horses nickers at her and she puts a finger to her lips, but her cover is blown. Blackwall whirls, tools in hand, raised as if prepared to defend himself. His eyes dart around the room until they land on her, his expression changing to something softer, almost disappointed. No - embarrassed. It hurts to see the way that he fights against his own happiness at seeing her, as if this joy is something he is not permitted. She doesn’t understand why he struggles against it.

Blackwall lowers his chin and looks away. “I didn’t know that you were there, Inquisitor.”

She smiles at him, even though he won’t see it. “That’s because I didn’t tell you I was here.”

“Have you been there long?” He asks, looking down at his hands. 

She shrugs with one shoulder. When he doesn’t hear an answer, he looks up, and she smiles at him again, meeting his dark eyes when they land on her. He doesn’t return the gesture, but something softens in his brow, and it’s enough. It will have to be, for now.

“You could have said something, or come in and sit by the fire. Aren’t you cold out there?”

She pushes off from where she’s leaning against the door, crossing behind him to the stool he keeps in front of the fireplace. Not much for company, he only has the one, but he’s not using it, so she perches there instead, pulling one knee up to her chest. She’s glad he asked her in. It feels like progress after days of setbacks. “I didn’t want you to stop because of me. I never learned how to work with wood, it’s interesting watching you do it.”

“Surely your clan made things,” he replies, turning back towards the workbench. “I’ve seen aravels before, they’re remarkable.”

“My clan did, I didn’t,” she explains, willing him to turn around again and look at her. “I made bow strings for the archers, but they made their own bows. I… When I became an archer, I was given a bow. I was supposed to learn, but…” She throws her hands wide. _The sky split open, my hand split open, and everything changed._

“No one taught me,” he offers. “Spending time in the forest, there’s always wood, I always have a knife. I wanted to see if I could make something, and it turned out I could.”

“What are you making this time?”

“You mean you can’t tell?” He glances back over his shoulder, and for the first time in days she sees a twinkle of amusement. 

“Please look at me,” she whispers, so soft he doesn’t hear it over the crackle of the fire.

“It’s a griffon,” he continues, taking a step back as if to appraise his work. “Or it will be, when it’s done.”

“Do you always make animals?” If she can’t get him to look at her, she can at least keep him talking. The sound of his voice calms her.

“Yes. Or, well, I haven’t tried anything else yet. I started with bears,” he continues, chuckling. “Nice and round, seemed like they’d be easy. I tried to do a halla once, but my hand slipped and I cut off an antler, so it turned out to be a regular doe instead.”

He’s not working. He’s just standing with his back to her, hands on the workbench while he talks. Sulahnassan hadn’t wanted to interrupt him, and yet that’s exactly what’s happened. He’s stopped because she is here. He is tense because she is here. If she wants him to continue, to relax, it will be up to her to make it happen.

The easiest way would be to go. But that would leave both of them unsatisfied, and she is growing tired of this dissatisfaction. 

“Show me.” It’s not a command, but not a request, either. Sulahnassan is still learning to give commands; it doesn’t come naturally to her, telling other people what to do. She is working at it, knows that it’s expected of her, but not here, not now. It helps that she knows she is not asking something of him that he doesn’t want for himself. Had he felt nothing for her, he would not have reacted the way he did on the ramparts. A man without feelings for her would have said as much, but he never denied it. Just as well he didn’t try to - he is a terrible liar.

Sulahnassan unfolds from where she was sitting on the stool, moving to stand beside him. He takes a step away as if on instinct, not wanting them to touch.

“There’s not a lot to show, it’s--” She slots her body between him and the table, her back to him, cutting off his objection. He set the tools down when she came in, and she picks them up, hefting them in her hands to get a feel for the chisel and the small mallet he’d been working with.

“You don’t--” He starts again. “Do you have your gloves with you? This is messy work.”

“Are you going to let me get hurt?” She keeps her voice low, barely turning her head, not looking back at him.

“No, my lady, of course not.”

His answer is more serious than her question warranted, and she smiles, wondering if he means to be charming, or if it’s just how he is. “Then we have nothing to worry about,” she replies. “Now, show me.” 

He’s started to step away, but she turns and catches one of his hands, pulling him closer to her. Without letting go, she turns again, grabbing his other hand and setting both of them on the wooden creation demonstratively. “I hold, you guide. Tell me about it.”

He is close enough that she can feel the quickness of his breath, his chest just touching her back when he breathes in, air brushing the top of her head when he exhales. He’s nervous, but he’s also not pulling away. 

“Where to start? I chose this piece of wood because of its size, I wanted something big enough that I could work on it for a while. It has to dry first, so it’s been by the fire for a few weeks now. But it can’t get too dry or else it might warp. Found that out the hard way once, much harder to work with.”

He continues, explaining to her about the grain of the wood, using his hand to move her fingers, to show her the direction in which the wood is smooth. He is wearing gloves, and his hands cover hers completely, so that she can not see what she is touching. 

As he talks, he relaxes. The tension in his hands and arms melts away, and his near-constant narration slows and sinks until the words become an afterthought for him, a rumble in his chest where he’s pressed against her back, each deep breath seeming to bring them closer together. She is completely surrounded by him, and while she might not have chosen this as the way she wanted it to happen, she finds that she is as happy and relaxed as he is. 

Under his hands - their hands - the back of the griffon starts to become clearer, smoother, pieces hacked away by precise movements. He is exacting, and she is content to follow along, watching him work with her hands. 

He rolls his shoulders and sighs, pausing. She has no idea how long they’ve been standing here, only that she doesn’t want it to end. 

“Does it hurt?” He asks, lifting their left hands away from the griffon. He turns them, and she can see the unnatural green light spilling out around the chisel. She opens her hand and lets the tool fall onto the workbench.

“... Not right now, no.”

“But sometimes?”

She nods, feels her hair catch on the rough fabric of his coat. “I can feel it, when there are Rifts nearby. And the closing, too. And I mean, it’s always there, I can always feel it, like a cut, where the skin pulls around it, and it’s tight and--”

“Are you in pain right now?” He asks again, and she doesn’t want to lie to him this time.

“Yes.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Lifting their joined hands, she drops the mallet as well and tangles their fingers together, wrapping his arms around her. She hasn’t felt this safe since she hugged Keeper goodbye before leaving for the conclave. 

Blackwall stills, not even breathing out as she holds him there. Her grip is not tight; he is free to leave at any moment. But she wants him to know that he has permission to stay, and if he will not accept her confession of feelings for him, maybe something more direct will convince him. This is what she wants. This is what he can do, something no one else in the Inquisition can do for her.

“Inquisitor, please.” There’s an ache in his voice that matches the ache that she feels. 

“This would not be a mistake, Blackwall. I’m sure of it.”

He slips his arms out of her grip, fingertips lingering on her sides before he steps away. 

“Tomorrow we will go to the Storm Coast, and you will understand why this can never happen. Good night, Inquisitor.”


End file.
